When Sherlock Met Molly, Sherlolly take on 'Harry met Sally' scenes
by Maejones
Summary: The title pretty much says it all. I watched that movie and it inspired a scene.


Sherlock opened the door to a red-faced Molly wearing baby blue cotton pajamas with tiny black polka dots and a fluffy white dressing gown. Her eyes were pink and sported a sheen while her cheeks puffed and her lips puckered.

"Well, I am here, as requested," he mumbled.

She grimaced, then raised a handkerchief to her face and started sobbing. He stood there a moment, his lips drawn in with his fingers dangling at his sides before she hiccupped and buried her face in her hands. He was not quite sure what to do. She was obviously overcome with emotions. She needed comfort. He was just not entirely sure how to go about offering such a thing.

He stepped into her apartment, swung the door closed and stared down at her a moment.

"So, I gather you have finally completely finished with . . . Tim?"

"Tom!" She sputtered as she looked up at him.

"Yeees, Tom," he felt his nose bunch. "I am . . . sorry?"

Molly sniffled and frowned at him as a fresh spill of tears welled up along her lids. "Oh, I knew I shouldn't have called you. You don't understand!"

Sherlock tugged at the cuffs of his Belstaff and then whipped it off. Without even thinking about it, he hung it on the empty peg to his left. He paused a moment as his fingers slid from his coat. There was always a perpetually empty peg even though the ones next to it struggled to support several garments. He exhaled a heavy breath. He did not want to think about the implications of that lonely hook.

"Would you like tea?" He asked stiffly.

"Oh, whatever," she huffed dramatically as she spun back towards her living room. "Tea, coffee, methamphetamine, crack cocaine. It doesn't matter. Nothing will help."

Sherlock tried not to laugh as he cupped her elbow and cajoled her back towards her sofa where she plopped down dejectedly. He pushed up his sleeves and set about making her tea as she plucked several tissues from a box on her end table.

"H-He took the last of his things today," Molly sputtered. "He's well and truly gone."

"Good riddance," Sherlock mumbled as he wandered into the kitchen.

"Excuse me, what?" Molly called.

"Erm, I just said, sounds right," he replied and poked his head sideways to see her. "Forgive me, but this was not entirely unexpected, am I wrong? The odds on your reconciliation were quite low."

Molly poked her lips out. "That's not the point! He left me. He. Left. Me! I was the one unhappy with him. I was supposed to break it off, not the other way round. Now he's gone and found himself a new girlfriend. It's only been four weeks. Four weeks!"

Sherlock flicked on the kettle and made his way back towards the living room. He paused a moment as he thought about exactly what a friend should do in this situation. Comfort. That is what Molly required. He surveyed the seating options. There was a vacant spot next to her on the sofa and the chair opposite from where she sat. He took a deep breath. She had asked for his assiatance in a state of uncertainty and insecurity. That dictated he sit next to her.

"It is a waste of energy to be concerned with Tom's activities," he murmured as he settled into the seat to her right.

"B-B-But h-how can he be ready to m-move on so quickly? Didn't I mean anything to him?"

Sherlock swallowed as Molly's large, bird-like eyes gazed up at him. Her lips trembled. He felt a furrow set into his brow as he instantly comprehended exactly what caused her to be upset. She wasn't sad about parting ways with Tom. She wanted to matter. Tom had made her feel inadequate, as if she was inconsequential. He licked his tongue over his teeth as the muscles in the back of his neck tightened. His blood temperature spiked up a couple of degrees and heated breath poured from his nostrils.

"Molly, I find it unfathomable that he did not care about you . . . very deeply. Likely, if he has appeared to have moved on it is because he is overcompensating for the vacancy you have left in his life."

Molly's throat moved as she swallowed. "You think so?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It is either that or he never really cared about you, having dragged out your relationship longer than intended because he was too cowardly to break it off sooner."

Molly's mouth hung open. Her brows drooped at the sides. He instantly regretted his speculation.

"But that's terrible! Oh, how horrid. I want to wretch," she cried as she drew away from him. "Why can't you ever just lie to me, Sherlock?"

He sucked in a quick breath. "O-Of course, this is low on my list of probabilities. In actual fact, Molly, I cannot comprehend his decision to leave you. His rejection makes no sense at all except that perhaps he is a very insecure individual. You possess every desirable characteristic I can imagine. You are supremely intelligent and the kindest, bravest, most stalwart defender a man might ever have. On top of all this, your beauty is unmatched . . . what? What is that look for?"

Molly dashed away tears. Her chest shuddered as a sob bubbled up from within.

"Oh, damn, Sherlock Holmes!" She shoved his shoulder. "Damn you!"

He lightly grasped her wrist, perplexed. "I don't understand."

"Y-Y-You break my heart but then make It impossible to hate you and I really do hate you."

Tears spilled from her eyes.

"I-I hate you," she whispered.

He leaned forward, incensed. "No you don't."

"I don't?"

Molly's lips quivered and he could no longer help himself.

"No," he mumbled.

He shifted forwards and fell on her, his lips fumbled over hers clumsily at first, but then fed from them eagerly like a man too long denied sustenance. Her hands found on his chest, satisfied little cries poured into his mouth and he was lost. His hands dove under her dressing gown and clutched her against him. Molly. His Molly, steward of his mind palace. She mattered and he would spend the rest of his life dedicated to reminding her of that fact.


End file.
